


nor slumber nor a roof against the rain

by raven_aorla



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Canon-Typical Disturbing Concepts, Canonical Character Death, Casual Sex, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Numbness, Eventual Romance, Fix-It, Happy Ending, Introspection, M/M, Memory Loss, Mental Health Issues, Multi, Non-Explicit Sex, Rare Pairings, Written Pre-Finale, alternative ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-17
Updated: 2021-03-25
Packaged: 2021-03-26 13:08:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30106455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raven_aorla/pseuds/raven_aorla
Summary: 5 times Oliver Banks went to bed with someone + 1 time someone went home with him.
Relationships: Georgie Barker & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Georgie Barker/Melanie King, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Oliver Banks & The End, Oliver Banks/Floyd Matharu, Oliver Banks/Graham Folger, Oliver Banks/Jordan Kennedy, Oliver Banks/Michael "Mike" Crew, Oliver Banks/Nathaniel Thorp, Oliver Banks/Tim Stoker
Comments: 18
Kudos: 29





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Love is not all: it is not meat nor drink  
> Nor slumber nor a roof against the rain;  
> Nor yet a floating spar to men that sink  
> And rise and sink and rise and sink again;  
> Love can not fill the thickened lung with breath,  
> Nor clean the blood, nor set the fractured bone;  
> Yet many a man is making friends with death  
> Even as I speak, for lack of love alone. 
> 
> \- From "Love is Not All" by Edna St. Vincent Millay

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After I came up with the pairing for this chapter, I realized that the scenario violates canon timelines. I decided to ignore this, because the alternative was having Oliver get picked up by the _Tundra_ when they were checking out the loneliest patch of sea ever as some sort of Lonely ritual/vacation spot. The _Dorian_ and its crew deserve the attention.

Oliver finds himself dumped out of a net and onto the deck of a ship, a sodden heap coughing up seawater for many minutes before he can answer his rescuers’(?) questions. He’s obviously not dead. Oliver doesn’t know if he strictly counts as alive anymore, though. The captain gruffly tells him that this is the _Dorian_ , and that it’s been over two months since the ship Oliver helped steer to its doom went down. Someone struck by a satellite nine weeks ago shouldn’t be as fine as he is, dry-mouthed and hungry but otherwise well. He also shouldn’t still be clutching the gun he’d used to carry out the bidding of the death vines. 

Turns out it’s the gun these people want. However Oliver got it before - he honestly doesn’t remember - it’s supposedly not a normal gun anymore. A tall, broad man with an affable, though guarded, grin and a suggestion of Pacific Island heritage negotiates for it. The captain addresses this man as Salesa, while everyone else addresses him as “sir”, and despite not being a sailor himself he’s clearly the one ultimately in charge. Salesa addresses Oliver with respect but not total trust. Fair enough. For the gun, he agrees to a written promise of Oliver being returned to England, treated like a passenger and not a…

“A prisoner?” Salesa says helpfully, when Oliver pauses.

“I’m obviously not a regular person anymore. I can understand why you might be tempted,” Oliver says slowly. He’s not afraid, he’s just distracted by the thin black tendrils he can see wrapped around the head of the crewmember who is tidying up the net Oliver had been tangled in. He is neither particularly displeased or pleased by it.

Salesa chuckles and says he considers himself a good judge of character, asking only for Oliver to promise to stay in his cabin unless supervised and not get in the way or do anyone harm. The captain assigns one of the crew, Matharu, to “keep an eye on” Oliver. Space is tight and they will have to share quarters. 

“That’s fine. If we don’t get on, that guy’s bunk will be free in four days,” Oliver says, pointing at the man who is going to have an aneurysm soon. Only when the man’s eyes grow huge does Oliver realize how tactless that was. Apparently his resurrected self cares much less than it used to, which bothers him in a vague way. “I mean...my condolences.”

“You can predict death?” Salesa asks, more interested in Oliver than the frozen sailor. The captain, meanwhile, looks horrified.

“Only if it isn’t long from now. It’s not fun.” Oliver holds out the gun, safety on and handle pointed towards Salesa to show his peaceful intent. 

Salesa takes the gun and tucks it into a burlap sack. “Hmm.”

Matharu is shorter than Oliver, only a few years older, with salt-toughened brown skin and working man’s calluses on his palms. He’s meticulous about lip balm application and keeping his fingernails trim and clean. He’s wary of Oliver upon their first meeting, though he politely gives him dry clothes and leaves Oliver alone to sleep. Oliver accepts water but waves away offers of food, feeling sated all of a sudden. He’s only pretending not to know why. 

That one man’s dread of his impending demise keeps Oliver full to bursting for four days. Oliver doesn’t attend the little funeral. The same man’s friends’ distressed contemplations on the fragility of life are enough to keep Oliver going for the rest of the trip.

It’s a long journey from Point Nemo back to Europe, and Mr. Matharu slowly warms up to Oliver enough to become Floyd instead. Oliver was always a quiet person even at his most sociable, but Floyd seems to be a bit lonely and ends up chatting a lot. The grandparents who immigrated to England from Pakistan, the beloved family friend he’s named after, his sport loyalties, his recurring nightmares of being interrogated and helplessly stripped of his secrets. Floyd borrows books from everyone else on the ship so Oliver will have something to occupy him between meals, supervised walks, and lengthy, indulgent periods of sleep. He shows distress that Oliver isn’t eating enough and sneaks choice morsels for him from under the cook’s nose. He takes Oliver out on nighttime strolls and tries to teach him constellations.

It takes Oliver longer than it should have to realize that Floyd is trying to woo him. Ever since the voice cracks and oily skin of puberty left Oliver behind, he’s gotten used to that kind of attention. (Graham used to get wildly jealous even when Oliver didn't reciprocate any of that attention. It was usually the cute kind of jealous.) He knows he’s the kind of good-looking that some call handsome, others call beautiful, depending on their taste, despite also being interpreted as solemn and sad even when he's not. His generally pleasant nature is enough to get most people to overlook his social awkwardness. Or it used to be. Having a nervous breakdown skewed things more than a little. Right now he’s focusing more on figuring out what he is. He doesn’t feel exhausted and depressed like he did before temporarily dying at sea. At the same time, he feels distant from everything, whether it’s other people, outside stimuli, or his own body. He feels like a passive shadow. He is placid inside, with few desires except to serve the amorphous thing that has made him this way, with a secondary craving to feel something he knows to be purely his own. 

That, more than anything, is why he accepts Floyd’s nervous offer near the end of the voyage. Not his nice but nondescript face, not his sweet but bland attempts at seduction. Oliver wants to see if he can still relate to a human being as something other than a potential source of fear. 

“Wait, wait, before I take my pants off, am I going to die anytime soon?” Floyd asks, catching Oliver’s wrists lightly in a tentative grip.

Oliver raises an eyebrow. “You make it sound like you think taking your pants off for me has something to do with it.”

“I don’t think you _cause_ death or anything. Not like some of the guys.” Floyd makes a face, as if worrying how close he is to killing the mood. It’s fine. Oliver already knows what most of the crew thinks of him, and he suspects the captain had wanted Oliver either tossed back overboard or locked in a box in the forbidden cargo hold before deferring to Salesa’s pacification strategy. “But, uh, I just wanted to check. It’d make things weird if we fucked and I keeled over shortly after.”

“I don’t see anything in you except life,” Oliver promises. 

Warm-blooded Floyd complains a little that Oliver’s hands and feet are freezing, but doesn’t dislike it enough to kick him out of bed, even after they’ve both come and there’s no real need for Oliver to stay. Oliver regrets a little that it’s not the same as sex was for him before, even a casual hookup like this one. He still goes for another round every remaining night before they reach the shore.

*

After the apocalypse, Oliver mentally searches his new domain, curious to see if his first post-transfiguration lover is here. He has a half-formed thought of trying to do something to reduce his suffering if he is. If Terminus will allow it, of course. Then again, if Floyd Matharu feared death particularly badly, he wouldn’t have approached Oliver like he had, would he? 


	2. Chapter 2

According to Oliver’s dreams, “the End” seems to be the most common name for his patron, but Oliver prefers “Terminus”, which to him is more a _He_ and not an _it_. It’s not like Terminus ever appears to him directly, not even in the dreams where arcane knowledge is gently pressed into his mind like crimps into pie crust. Still, Oliver feels a sense of an inhuman intelligence, a pervasive presence, that wants to take care of Oliver now that he’s stopped running away.

All his modest needs and ever-decreasing wants are met now. Oliver learns the trick of accessing his own tiny pocket dimension all his own, usually manifesting as a tastefully decorated studio. The bed, tucked into a cozy alcove, is large and soft. The wardrobe always has clothes he likes, all the ripped black jeans and fitted jackets he used to save for weekends. There’s never enough money in his wallet to raise eyebrows, but there’s always a bit of cash and he’s never seen the credit card fail to work. Not that he ever tries to buy anything much. If he were still talking to his friend Anahita, and if she believed his story, she would have teased him about having an eldritch sugar daddy.

It was difficult talking to Jane Prentiss while he worked at the crystal shop, partly because she could be so intense but mostly because Oliver’s dreams showed him constant images of tiny deaths soon to happen inside her skin. Both of which make a lot more sense once he learns about the concept of a Flesh Hive. In any case, she once cornered him during their break while he was trying to eat a sandwich and told him about a documentary she saw about ants. How there’s a type that uses leaves as a food source, but can’t eat leaves directly. How they must cut scraps of leaves and carry them to special growing chambers and cultivate a fungus on the leaves, nurturing the fungus to be harvested. She made it sound strangely tender. Now as he wraps himself in the black silk sheets Terminus provides, preparing to feed Him with his witnessing, it makes more sense to him. 

When Oliver wants more complex information about his new existence, something filtered through a humanlike lens, Terminus guides him to Nathaniel Thorp’s door. The dream tells him that Nathaniel is over two hundred years old but looks no more than thirty, treating Oliver to a sort of grim montage of why this is the case. He lives in a small house that a quick Google indicated is financed entirely by cards and chess tournaments. There are a few news pieces out there on him, since it’s unusual for one person to be professionally skilled at so many different games, much less one who shies away from the limelight. 

“I don’t have anything for you to drink,” Nathaniel says flatly. He’s thin and stern, though there’s a softness in his dark eyes that Oliver hopes bodes well, and though his clothes are modern casual he keeps his hair in a longish 18th century style. He doesn’t seem pleased to see Oliver, but he lets him in. “Assuming you drink or eat. I can smell Death on you.”

“Recreationally,” Oliver says, with a polite smile. “Once in a while. It’s hard to give up chips.”

Nathaniel shrugs. “I wouldn’t know.”

“Right, sorry. Could...could I ask you a few questions about being associated with death? What that’s like for you? How do you know what to do?”

“I’m retired, lad.” Nathaniel looks him up and down. “And it’s not going to be much like whatever soft little setup you have going on.”

The resentment is understandable, so he doesn’t retaliate. Oliver wouldn’t enjoy being an animated skeleton gambling with the terrified dying, either. “Please?”

Nathaniel takes a deck of cards out of his pocket. “Tell you what. If you can teach me a card game I never played while I was an incarnation of Death, I’ll answer a question every other hand before you lose. It’s not as easy as you might think. People can and do play Go Fish for their lives.”

“Does it have to be completely unlike any other game, or can it just be a variant?”

“I’ll allow significant variation.”

There’s one game Oliver played a fair amount in wilder days that he highly doubts anyone would suggest to a pile of scary bones wrapped in a shroud. Before he has a chance to change his mind, Oliver blurts out, “Let’s play strip poker.”

A stunned silence, then Nathaniel laughs in surprise. “Fine, but if you get a chill I’m not turning up the heat for you.”

It’s a crisp autumn day, so Oliver has a lot to work with, including fingerless gloves and both a gray ombre scarf and a skinny crimson necktie. But Nathaniel’s re-embodiment has left him with a ridiculous amount of residual skill. Oliver’s resurrection has left him with some residual embarrassment, sure, but he does his best to play it cool when he has to slip off his boxers, which he’d left for last.

“Not bad,” Nathaniel says, looking him up and down more slowly than before. He doesn’t clarify whether he means the view or Oliver’s rusty poker prowess. Since he’s only lost one sock and his watch, nothing else, the latter seems unlikely. “Time’s up, then. Have a nice night, don’t let the door hit you on your way out.”

Oliver folds his arms. “I still want to know about -”

“Unless you can peel your pretty skin off, you’ve naught left to remove. Mind you, I myself can peel my skin off if I have a blade handy, but nobody enjoys the sight of it growing back.” 

“This version of strip poker has an expanded edition,” Oliver says, which is true, though he normally had a few shots before getting to this point back in the day. There’s a certain appeal to the idea. It’s been months since Oliver has so much as touched anyone, and that was stickily shaking hands with Annabelle Cane when she insisted on introducing herself to the “new player in town”.

“I don’t eat, drink, or sleep, what makes you think I want what you’re getting at?” Nathaniel asks. 

“You feel like you want something and you don’t know what,” Oliver says. The longing was palpable through Oliver’s vision. “I’ve found that our patron -”

“Master,” Nathaniel growls. 

“Agree to disagree. I’ve found that He -”

“It!”

“Agreeing to disagree. He lets me have this. Maybe because it provides the ultimate contrast, I don’t know. And we’re two of a kind, if you think about it, so that might help. I’m already naked. Might as well give it a try.” 

Nathaniel hums and considers. “Let’s move this upstairs. The bed came with the place. I lie in it to watch telly.”

(“Was that the thing you wanted after all?” Oliver asks later, having finally pried some normal physiological reactions out of his undead companion, to Nathaniel’s shock and delight. Nathaniel sighs and shakes his head, but he wraps blankets more tightly around them and lets Oliver pet his hair.)

*

After the apocalypse, Nathaniel visits Oliver’s contemplative throne of intertwined black roots and branches. He doesn’t have a fixed location in this new world order, but wanders through hellscapes challenging victims to games. He isn’t thrilled by the situation but says he’s happy he can have flesh and blood this time around. 

“If they win, I’ll be entitled to transfer them to an End domain. If someone ever beats the massive odds and wins, would you like it to be yours?”

Oliver leans down and kisses him on the cheek. A benediction to a friend. “You can bring them here, thank you.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lot of this chapter overlaps with my fic ["tell the sky (don't fall on me)"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29080560/chapters/71384634), but with a flipped POV. I'm trying to get more people to call this ship Terminal Velocity. 
> 
> Chapter contains references to light dom/sub, and canon-typical-levels murder of background characters.

From time to time, Oliver’s role is slightly more active than usual. Today he is enjoying a nice hike that takes him on the same path as a pair of couples in their forties. The quartet are planning to make a day out of it, carrying sandwiches to eat later and binoculars to watch for birds. He takes no joy in what he is about to do to them. He won’t shy away from it, all the same.

“Can we help you?” one of the men asks suspiciously as Oliver catches up to them. The man’s wife is clutching at her expensive camera like she thinks Oliver’s going to make a grab for it. As if someone wearing a designer wool overcoat that normally costs more than what Oliver used to pay in rent would want to steal her silly camera. (The coat appeared in Oliver’s wardrobe mere days after Oliver vocally admired a similar one. Sometimes he wonders if it’s a duplicate or if Terminus somehow simply stripped it off the guy to hand over postmortem. It would have been rude to turn it down either way.)

“You’re going to die of exposure in about seventy-two hours,” Oliver says, not without sympathy. None of them deserve this, no matter their attitude. “All four of you. A combination of hypothermia and dehydration. I’m sorry. There’s nothing to be done about it. You might be able to call or text some loved ones first if you can get a mobile signal.”

They huff and sputter, asking if this is a sick joke or a strange threat, telling him to leave them alone. He cuts them off and tells them how each of their parents died. In the shocked silence, the air fills with the rich and heavy scent of their fear.

A scent that is then replaced by the tang of ozone as a sudden thunderstorm whips up out of nowhere. Oliver is the only one present who doesn’t scream when he’s flung up into the sky, though he’s definitely perplexed. Through the clouds appears a short, slight jockey of a man with light gray-blue eyes and a scar of branching zigzags that crawl up the side of his neck. It doesn’t take much to realize that this must be one of those Vast acolytes.

Now that he’s in the sky like this, Oliver understands what could draw someone to the Falling Titan’s service. He can actually feel his heart pounding in his chest as the wind whistles past his face. How long has it been since he was aware of his pulse? The swoop in his stomach is strange yet familiar. He doesn’t need to breathe, but not being able to do more than gasp due to the harsh demands of terminal velocity upon his body is thrilling. In this moment the world has depth and width and breadth that _transcends_ death and he kind of loves it. He tries not to be too obvious about it, though. His allegiance is solid. 

The scarred man must figure out that Oliver is a fellow predator, unsuitable as prey. After flinging their accidental shared quarry off into the distance he takes Oliver’s hands in his and brings them both safely to the ground. He sounds embarrassed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you weren’t one of those, you know…”

“Innocent people?” Oliver left guilt behind at Point Nemo, which doesn’t mean he deludes himself about his own nature either. “I appreciate the soft landing. My patron isn’t ready to let me die for good, but it doesn’t necessarily shield me from pain.”

“Are you angry?”

His clothes got drenched while up there, so Oliver shucks off his coat and slings it over one shoulder. “Do you have any idea of how to make it up to me, then?”

The man introduces himself as Mike Crew. His initial intention seems to be nothing more than to take Oliver back to his house for a hot shower and a drink by way of apology. He provides a bathrobe for Oliver to wear after his shower and rushes to put the kettle on. But after some stilted conversation over tea brewed strong and sweet, Oliver decides to be candid.

“Mike, I wasn’t sure how to bring this up, so perhaps I should cut to it without trying to be graceful. I didn’t like the part where you tossed me around in a raincloud…”

“Again, so sorry about that.” Mike looks like he’s dying inside. Perhaps he’s gotten into bad situations because of a faux pas with another avatar.

“...But the part where I was tumbling down, insides lurching, couldn’t speak, nothing but your hands and my trust that you were going to keep me from crashing...I’m sure it would have been different if not being able to breathe properly was painful for me, but like I said with the ocean floor thing that’s not really an issue so....” Oliver speaks with every bit of sincerity in his body. “I liked it.”

Mike raises his eyebrows and tentatively offers to give him the same feeling, but to keep him safe and dry at the same time. He demonstrates how he can summon the sensation of vertigo in a way that overwhelms Oliver, makes him feel awake and helpless and alive, all the while actually crushed into the sofa cushions. Or curled up in Mike’s lap. Or, eventually, in his bed, though Mike prefers Oliver to be in a more normal state during actual sex. Mike is tiny - in all respects but one, as apparently some jokes have merit - bossy, and conscientious enough to enforce aftercare. They develop an arrangement. They aren’t in love, but they like what they can do for each other and want to do it often, and that’s the closest thing Oliver’s had for some time. 

*

It starts with a phone call that rouses Oliver from a nap. It's the smartphone Mike got him as a parting gift so he could send Oliver stupid memes after fleeing the country. Oliver was sad to advise Mike to run away, but if the Hunter who’d almost killed him ever found out he’d survived....

“Hello," Annabelle croons. “It’s time.”

“What do you want me to do?” Oliver asks, resigned. Annabelle’s warning that Mike had been attacked and accidentally buried alive had been quick enough for Oliver to save him, and he knows it couldn’t have been for free. Hopefully the Mother of Puppets will consider this favor an equivalent exchange and he’ll be left alone after. 

(Left alone. By the Web. Ha.)

“The current Archivist of the Magnus Institute is in your patron’s grip. Dreaming much like you do, but he hasn’t woken up for half a year and we need him in action. The Mother wishes for you to help him awaken.”

“That’ll have to be his choice,” Oliver says, rubbing his eyes. He heard the news when it happened. Some of the details had affected even him, both practically and emotionally. “I can give him the information he needs to make that choice. And, and a statement to make him stronger, if he needs it. I can’t guarantee the results.”

“You should have more confidence in yourself, Coroner. You’re the End’s special darling, don’t you know? So beloved by the greatest of _inevitabilities_ , yet so uncertain in your own mind.”

Oliver knows Annabelle will tell him what he wants to hear if that will get him to follow her machinations, and it’s a bit...uncomfortable....that this is apparently what he wants to hear. But it’s not like what she’s asking him to do will go against Terminus’ interests. So he mumbles polite acquiescence, makes a note of the address, and gets ready to leave. On the way, he lingers at the site of a car accident for a few minutes to soak up the secondhand death-dread of passersby, so that he can afford to lose energy to the Eye later. The trip to the hospital goes much faster after that. 

Jonathan Sims looks small and fragile in his unnatural coma. Oliver knows his dreams are even more horrifying than Oliver’s used to be for him, and wishes for Jon that same acceptance Oliver has found. When he nudges at Jon’s mind, as gently as he can, he catches a hint of ozone at the periphery of his awareness. Not the literal smell - the rush he felt the first time he encountered it. Something happened between Mike and Jon that left a profound mark on the Archivist’s soul. He doubts Jon enjoyed Mike’s company as much as Oliver did. 

He pushes the thought aside, and speaks.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: implied suicidal ideation, and sex that is safe and consensual but in which one party is dealing with very bad mental health and the other is being deceptive.

A sense that’s come more slowly to Oliver is the ability to see marks of the Entities on people, not only their deaths. There is a different quality between the ones who feed them and the ones considered food. It’s like the difference between fingerprints and target signs. The fingerprinted ones sometimes recognize Oliver in turn, if they’ve been at it long enough, but other times they either see nothing or choose not to acknowledge it. 

The man in front of Oliver in the queue to order at this Chinese takeaway serves the Eye but has been fed upon by the Stranger, Corruption, and Spiral in turn. He’s also going to die in six days in some sort of explosion. Oliver feels a ripple of distant pity and growing fascination. It doesn’t help when the man glances at the TV bolted high up in the corner, showing silent captioned news, and therefore gives Oliver a glimpse of a chiseled jaw and impish good looks. The one thing keeping him from model-worthy is the assortment of small circular scars dotting all his visible skin. It doesn’t put him off. In some ways it makes him more real, as do the wrinkles and one food stain on his faded, unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt over a black tee, and the weariness in his voice when he places his order.

Is Oliver a bad person for following the man down the street, causing him to feel a dull spike of alarm of someone who would feel afraid if he wasn’t so damn tired? Add it to the pile of bad things he does these days. “Sorry! You were in front of me and I saw you drop a fiver after paying.” He holds out a banknote from his own wallet to bolster the lie. 

The man stops in his tracks fast enough to set the plastic back containing his takeaway boxes swinging. “Oh, uh, thank you?”

“You look like you’re having a bad enough day without losing money on top of it,” Oliver says, with a nervous laugh. He doesn’t really know how to talk to people who don’t know what he is. He can tell that this one hasn’t been serving the Eye long enough to be granted special insight. They’re not far from the Magnus Institute, so he’s probably one of the assistants and not the actual Archivist. 

The man snorts. “That’s one way to put it. Left work early.”

“Not a fan of your job?”

“It’s a nightmare. A real nightmare.” He laughs grimly and rubs his face with his free hand. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Would it help to talk about something else?” Oliver asks. 

The man introduces himself as Tim, and Oliver realizes that using the same fake name as he did on his long-ago statement might be unwise and claims to be called Dorian. They end up eating together on a bench in a nearby park. Oliver’s main reason for buying food was to disguise his real business there, but he does still enjoy the occasional dumpling. Tim talks about nothing, like he’s trying to fill up some bitter hollowness, and Oliver listens.

“Weird direction for a fortune cookie to go in,” Tim says when he gets around to breaking his open. “ _No matter where you go, every step is one step closer to death._ ”

“Mine says: _You will meet a mysterious individual whose words are worth noting. _”__

__“You’re pulling my leg,” Tim says, grabbing the slip of paper to read for himself. Oliver isn’t lying. He only changed forty percent of the fortune cookies to provide customers with a _memento mori_ , twenty percent to be unspecifically ominous, and left the remainder alone. Changing all of them would have been suspicious, despite doing it without going anywhere near the big sack where the employees stored them._ _

__“Don’t argue with the universe, mate.”_ _

__Tim looks at the fortune, then at Oliver, then at the fortune again. “If you have an ulterior motive, please skip the games and kill me now.”_ _

__Schooling his face into shocked innocence, Oliver protests, “I’m sorry if I’ve given the wrong impression. You’re just…”_ _

__“Just what?”_ _

__“Er...hot. Really hot. I’m out of practice flirting, I’m so sorry. I can go.” Oliver is no spider. No matter what falsehoods he tries to construct for his own anonymity, some of the truth will peek out whether he wants it or not. He manages to leave out the fact that some of Tim’s attractiveness comes from the damage to his spirit and the doom that is coming for him. This doesn’t change the fact that Oliver-That-Was would have found him hot too, would have done something stupid to get his attention and been flustered when he got it._ _

__“Wait.” Tim puts a hand on his leg. “I don’t mean to be rude when you’ve only been nice. I guess I’ve lost faith that someone could be nice for no reason. Except for me being hot, I suppose.”_ _

__“I admit that I’m not always a good enough Samaritan to chase someone down the street.” Oliver settles back down and places a hand over the other. There's a death vine looped around Tim's wrist, but by now Oliver has learned to make the vines disregard his flesh and passes through them like they're nothing but slightly chilled shadows. Tim's hand is trembling a little, even as Tim snorts at Oliver’s remark._ _

__They sit quietly for a few minutes. The sun’s starting to set. Tim inhales deeply, exhales slowly, and asks, “Would you like to come back to my place, Dorian? It’s a bit of a mess, but it’s not far.”_ _

__“Not worried I’m some kind of axe murderer?” Oliver asks with faux humor. While listening to him, he sensed that Tim suspects he’s going to die soon, that whatever will kill him is part of some desperate gambit he is going into by choice. He is resigned to it. He’s also afraid of it. It’s a rarer vintage of fear than Oliver usually gets to sip on, and he’s craving to drink down more. At the same time, he doesn’t want Tim to feel worse than he does already. There’s enough of Oliver-That-Was to want to be a source of pleasure and solace, too._ _

__“Might be a favor,” Tim mutters before plastering on a well-rehearsed smile. He says at a normal volume, “I’ll just have to seduce you into changing your mind.”_ _

__Behind closed doors, Tim is clingy and needy, like he’s been starved of affection for a long time. It helps Oliver make up his mind on whether to kiss him or not. Not all men like to do that with random hookups, but this may be Tim’s last chance for such a thing. He follows Tim’s wishes to be pushed up against a wall and eventually pressed face down into the mattress, but he’s not quite as rough or fast as Tim urges him to be, and Tim swallows down whimpers when Oliver tells him how good he looks and sounds and tastes._ _

__Tim can’t see or feel the tendrils that twine around him and even pierce through him more profoundly than the worms ever did, and Oliver’s hands treat them as insubstantial no matter how solid they look from his perspective. But with some mental effort he coaxes them into relaxing their grip into more of a cradle than a trap. It’s a traitorous sentiment, but true: Terminus is fear of death, not death itself, and after the End there can be no further fear. There’s an inherent mercy in Oliver’s patron that is lacking in His brethren. Oliver has to believe that. The alternative is throwing himself back into the sea._ _

__“I’m glad you’re a cuddler too,” Tim says afterwards, condom knotted and tossed randomly away to be dealt with later. “Though I might try to tempt you into the shower with me, in a bit.”_ _

__“In a bit,” Oliver agrees._ _

__“I’m not going to see you again. It’s nothing personal.”_ _

__“As long as it isn’t because you’re hiding this from a girlfriend or something, I don’t mind.” He knows this isn’t the case. It’s a deliberate red herring._ _

__Tim rolls his eyes. “God, no. This was nice, but I’m going to be very busy. Unavailable. You should find someone who’ll have time for you.”_ _

__Oliver puts a hand flat on Tim’s chest, over his heart. There are approximately 600,000 beats left in it. Strange, to feel so satisfied but so sad. He won’t seek out a man covered in death vines again, no matter what delicious bittersweetness it adds to the experience. “Thank you for the time you did give me.”_ _

___*_  
After the apocalypse, the Archivist enters Oliver’s domain with his beloved. Martin’s resentment at Oliver’s ability to save Jon from a coma when Martin felt helpless and alone is understandable, but Oliver is relieved that Jon doesn’t intend to “smite” him. Not that Oliver has any fear of his own death by now. Continued existence is preferred, that’s all. He has work to do. Having entered Jon’s mind before, in the coma, it’s easy for Oliver to send him a personalized report, with details about a few of his charges and the information that the End will ultimately claim every scrap of this world. He wonders what the Archivist will do with this information, if anything. 

__While he doesn’t go anywhere near them, he can also hear Jon and Martin’s conversation as they reunite and set off on their journey._ _

__“...Turns out End domains allow for true death, if that helps,” Jon is saying._ _

__“Not as much as you seem to think it is,” Martin huffs fondly. “A little, I suppose. No sight of Tall, Grim, and Handsome?”_ _

__“What qualifies a person as handsome, really? I know at least one statement giver described him as such, but I’ve never understood how people tell. A face is primarily so we can recognize someone, isn’t it?”_ _

__At this, Martin sounds much more cheerful. “Could have been the statement giver’s personal taste. It’s not like we know anyone who saw him.”_ _

__“Georgie did, but she was focused on chasing out an interloper whose...aura, I suppose...she recognized from her previous brush with the End, though I don’t think it was conscious at the time. Tim, on the other hand -”_ _

__“What? Tim met him?”_ _

__“I’m as surprised as you are. I didn’t know until I Looked just now.”_ _

__“Why didn’t Tim say anything?”_ _

__“He didn’t know who he was...er...interacting...with.”_ _

__All the cheer vanishes. “Noooo. Are you telling me that - nooooo.”_ _

__“Don’t judge him for it, Martin. He was seeking comfort during the lead-up to the Unknowing, and he ran into someone he found attractive.”_ _

__“I’m not judging him for it, but really? Really?”_ _

__“What’s the part you object to?” Jon sounds confused. Oliver peeks long enough to confirm visually, then returns to audio only because that requires no effort._ _

__“You go on about Oliver Banks being ‘fairly benign’, but he, he, he treated Tim like a snack.”_ _

__“Didn’t Tim sometimes refer to himself as a snack?”_ _

__“Not what I meant!_ _

__“Be aware that Oliver can most likely hear us, possibly even see us, as long as we’re near the corpse roots.”_ _

__“I don’t care. I’m not advocating killing him over it, I accept that discussion’s done with, but I’m not impressed. Not at all. Poor Tim. I should have been paying more attention.”_ _

__“It’s not your fault. It’s not.”_ _

__“Fine.”_ _

__“In any case, Tim took it as comfort. It was the last time he felt at all happy, other than the moment he pressed the detonator and knew he'd avenged his brother at last.” Jon's voice wavers on that last sentence. He clears his throat. “I’d like to talk about something else. Anything else.”_ _

__“Of course.” There’s a sound of fabric rustling as Martin pulls Jon in for a hug._ _

__Things go back to the new normal once the pair leave. Oliver wanders over to two of the roots snaking through the landscape and brings them together. It allows those travelling towards their inevitable to catch a glimpse of each other’s fates. There’s pain in that, otherwise it wouldn’t be possible for him to do, but perhaps there is a crumb of solace as well._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know Jon being ace doesn't necessarily mean he can't feel some form of attraction, I just think it'd be really funny if part of why Martin is canonically jealous of Oliver was Oliver's reputation for being hot, but Jon was like ??????? about the whole concept.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains references to suicidal thoughts.

Contrary to what some may believe, Economics students do have some concept of how to party. Oliver isn’t the most extroverted of people, but he thinks it would be nice to accept an invitation for once, get out of his room and shake off the dust of the massive research paper he had to turn in yesterday.

And it is nice. At first. It’s a house party of a friend of a friend. He has a few drinks and a few laughs, and gently dissuades a young lady who clearly fancies him from wasting her time. 

“Ugh, why are all the fit boys gay,” she declares with exaggerated grievance.

“I’m not doing it to spite you,” Oliver says, echoing long-ago words to his mum. His father took it better and is the only family member he’s stayed close with. 

“S’fine. Ooh, ooh, you should meet my mate Graham, he’s around here somewhere, probably going on and on about antiquing or true crime or one of his other obsessions.”

“You make him sound so appealing,” Oliver replies, with a slight eye roll. He knows she means well, but he’s not a fan of straight people attempting to matchmake.

Later, though, the commotion starts to get to him, and he retreats to the balcony for some air. Someone’s already there, someone with a round, open face, curly hair, and very blue eyes. He's chewing on something.

"May I?" Oliver asks.

The man startles guiltily and tucks whatever he was chewing on into his fist. "Sure. It's not even my place."

"You don't have to stop whatever you’re doing. I'm not one to lecture about chewing tobacco or whatever."

He sighs and reveals a wad of paper. "I almost wish it was tobacco. Less embarrassing. It helps when I get anxious.”

“My sister used to eat dirt when she got upset,” Oliver says. “She went to therapy for it. They called it pica, I think?”

“Yeah.” 

“Let’s start over. I’m Oliver Banks.” He holds out a hand. 

“Er, Graham Folger.” Graham stuffs the paper into a pocket and shakes Oliver’s hand. “I think Tiffany wanted to introduce us? I think I should have let her. Didn’t know what I was missing.”

“I like meeting you on my own terms,” Oliver says, and smiles.

They end up talking for hours, until the host kicks them out. Then they go to Graham’s place, a spacious but rather bare apartment with large windows, and the talking turns to kissing. They're too tired, tipsy, or timid for more just yet. Oliver wakes up to Graham all tucked up against his side, their jeans off but their shirts and pants still on. 

“Don’t go so soon,” Graham says drowsily when Oliver shifts. “Stay.”

And for six years, Oliver does.

*  
Time doesn’t work after the apocalypse, so Oliver has no conception of how long he’s been tending to his domain when a bizarre sound rips through the air. It makes him think of a few hundred cassette tapes the size of skyscrapers all rewinding simultaneously. For the first time since Point Nemo, Oliver feels pain. He feels like there’s a large knife slowly pushing through his skull and trying to bisect his brain. It makes him crumple to the ground in a ball and squeeze his eyes shut, groaning, as he Sees Terminus flow slickly after its kin towards a gash in the universe.

There is a hole in the world. Something has happened to make the Fears rush towards it, like water being drained from a bath. Some of their servants are following along. The lingering connection between Oliver and Mike Crew, born from Mike using his powers to play with Oliver so many times, allows Oliver to watch Mike let the wildest winds of the Vast carry him from what had once been the English Channel to wherever the Falling Titan will fall upon next. It allows Mike to See Oliver watching and wave goodbye, a slight twist to his mouth. 

Not all servants are created equal, though. Oliver Sees Nathaniel Thorp - who had been playing dominoes with a bewildered Spiral victim - go from a startled expression to a resigned one before crumbling into centuries-old dust. He wasn’t “valuable” enough to carry along, but too dependent to survive on his own.

Oliver can feel vines wrapping around him, ready to pull him towards the portal. Oliver balks and digs his fingers into the dirt. This surprises him. It’s been a long time since he’s done anything other than peacefully accept what the End requires. Terminus communicates more directly than He ever has before, and sends Oliver a feeling of possessiveness. Of wanting. Oliver is precious and not to be discarded. The Coroner still has a place of honor, of belonging. 

But as more and more of the Entities drain from the world, Oliver is thinking more and more clearly. He sees the hollowness of his patron’s care for him, and the blank, placid accomplice it has molded him into. Most importantly, the Stranger finishes its escape before the others do, possibly the most eager to get away from under the Eye. When it does, a cloud is lifted from Oliver’s mind…

_...Months after Oliver moves out, Graham gives him a call saying he wants to meet up somewhere neutral, somewhere they can talk. Maybe they can begin again. Or at least be friends. Oliver, lonely and lost, agrees. But when they meet, something is wrong. Oliver can’t put his finger on it. Something is simply wrong._

Now he knows that wasn’t Graham. It hadn’t even looked or sounded like him at all. The Stranger took Graham. The Stranger ate Graham’s life and rewrote everyone’s memories of him, and it met with Oliver only to taunt him with subconscious unease, and Graham had not deserved that. Oliver feels tears coming to his eyes for the first time in over a decade. Terminus conveys that if Oliver were to accompany Him, these would be the last tears he would ever have to shed. 

“No,” Oliver mutters through gritted teeth. Those tears are his, damn it. They’re _right_. “I renounce you. Whatever it’ll mean for me, I’m not playing this game anymore. Fuck off.”

The whole world has been screaming for a long time now, but Oliver adds to its crescendo.

*

After the apocalypse is undone, Oliver returns to Nathaniel’s house. Nathaniel had taken to keeping a spare key under a plant pot in the garden for Oliver, the electricity and water bills are paid up for a few months, and there’s a small hoard of cash under the mattress. It’s not like Nathaniel will be back for it. Oliver eats the absolute minimum of delivered food that will make his newly mortal body stop complaining. Otherwise he mostly alternates between sleep and crying. All the feelings he’s been missing are back now, piled on with grief and guilt. So, so, so much guilt.

According to the news, the world is back to normal. According to Oliver’s senses and intuition, it’s actually at a level of normal that had never really existed before, the mundane one the general public believed in. That’s...good. It’s good. Oliver doesn’t begrudge the world that. At the same time, he doesn’t know what to do other than cater to his short-term physical needs. He thinks about turning himself in for murder and hijacking a ship, but trying to explain the circumstances thereof would be more likely to get him committed, and that frightens him more than prison does. 

(He thinks about killing himself, too. He can’t quite bring himself to do it.)

The cash hoard is starting to run low by the time Martin Blackwood shows up. 

“I’m assuming you don’t still want Jon to kill me,” Oliver says, ushering him into the living room.

Martin’s hair has gray streaks in it now, and he sits down with the relief of someone who spent uncountable time hiking across a hellscape. “No, and I’m sorry about that. It was petty of me. Besides, if you’re still here after the Entities went on their grisly way, that means there was enough of a decent person left inside you to survive our new reality. That’s really rare.”

Oliver takes a seat across from him. “Does everyone who served remember?”

“More or less. The people who were simply victims don’t have to carry that, though, thank...something.” Martin clears his throat. “The Institute’s gone now. I got my hands on the Lukas family fortune…”

Despite himself, Oliver whistles. “All that sweet Forsaken millions? How?”

“Heh, well, Peter Lukas wasn’t always thorough about reading papers his personal assistant asked him to sign, if you caught him in the right moment." Martin blushes but also looks a little smug. “Undoing our apocalypse meant exposing people in other universes to the Fears. We’re working on finding a way to help those universes somehow. Reduce the damage we were forced to do. Even if it’s just warning them. Would you like to be on our team? We’d be happy to help you get back into society, find work and, you know, counseling or…”

The front door wrenches open, and a frantic Jonathan Sims bursts in and runs to Martin’s side, grasping his hand tightly. “Martin, I’m sorry, I was in a car, and I didn’t recognize the car and I had a book but I’d forgotten the beginning of the book. And you weren’t _there_. I think I was supposed to stay in the car. I’m sorry. I needed you.”

“It’s okay, Jon, next time I can leave a note.” Martin squeezes Jon’s hand and murmurs soothing words too softly for Oliver to hear.

Jon calms down and looks at Oliver. “Do I know you?”

“This is the man who woke you from your coma.”

“Coma?” Jon looks distant for a moment before it clicks. “Oh! Coma. Right. I was in...I was in a coma. It was unpleasant. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Oliver says. He doesn’t need to ask what’s going on. The Archivist’s memory and ability to learn anything new would have become entwined with the Beholding. It’s a miracle Jon’s alive at all.

Martin takes a business card out of his wallet and places it on the coffee table. “Please get in touch, Oliver. The James Foundation would be happy to have you as a consultant.”

“You named it after Sasha?” Jon asks with wide eyes. 

“You did,” Martin says, as if this were a totally normal exchange that did not involve one party having severe mystical brain damage. “Let’s go home. It’ll be time to feed Commander Mews soon.”

“That sounds like a cat’s name.”

“That’s because she’s a cat.”

“We have a cat.” Jon smiles, then furrows his brow. “What does the James Foundation do?”

Martin pulls a mini notebook out of Jon’s coat pocket. It’s attached to Jon’s belt loop by a long string, perhaps to prevent him from losing it, and Martin opens it to a particular page before placing it in Jon’s hands.

“Right. Sorry. I’m having one of my bad days. Have a nice evening, Mr...whoever you are?” Jon pauses and examines his hand. “I’m wearing a wedding ring.”

“So am I,” Martin points out. Jon looks delighted when it clicks in his head. 

Oliver waits for their car to leave the driveway before he picks up the business card. It seems, at least, that one of the emotions which has returned to him is hope.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains references to PTSD and panic attacks. 
> 
> The physical description of Jordan is inspired by Gunpowder Tim from the Mechanisms, both of whom are played by Tim Ledsam. The link embedded in one part of the dialogue will take you to a song sung by him, with Jonny Sims joining in the chorus and singing one verse.

The James Foundation is the only employer Oliver can find that both needed someone to handle the nitty gritty of their finances and wouldn’t take issue with the enormous gap in Oliver’s CV. They’re reimbursing him the fees to take some online courses to refresh his skills, though he does that on his own time. He doesn’t mind. Martin is also an understanding boss who lets Oliver hide in an empty meeting room for a bit whenever he has a meltdown, or go home early as long as he makes up the work afterwards.

Five months since becoming human again, and Oliver is still having trouble handling the onslaught of unfiltered raw emotion. For example, the way he reacted when they threw him a surprise party for getting them a massive tax break and several grants that nobody else had thought they’d qualify for. Everyone was very nice about him bursting into tears and hiding under a desk.

"You’re a great accountant and a good person,” Melanie tells him. They’re both grabbing a quick sandwich in the staff break room. "A real catch!"

“What is it now?” Georgie asks, wandering in with a lunch bag and linking pinkies with Jon as he trails after her. Martin and Georgie are the only people Jon consistently recognizes, though he finds several other people familiar. He becomes agitated if he can’t at least hear one of them at any given time. During the workday, Jon quietly sits and reads through continually replenished stacks of books with either his ex or his husband nearby, to maximize his feelings of safety and contentment. Martin gave Georgie her own office and recording booth to continue _What the Ghost?_ here instead of at home, because as much as Martin adores Jon and would do anything for him, sometimes he needs space. 

Jon’s reading a book right now, grasped tightly in his unscarred hand. Everyone knows not to interrupt him when he’s reading if it’s avoidable, because he might forget everything he’s just read and will become very cross about having to start over. His memory is in tatters while his personality and intellect are completely intact. Oliver can’t imagine how frustrated he must feel sometimes.

“Someone who was waiting for an appointment with Martin complimented Oliver’s fingerless gloves,” Melanie says with delight. She works as Martin’s assistant and receptionist now, so she caught the whole exchange as Oliver was innocently passing by. “Does he look flustered, Georgie-babe? He sounded flustered.”

Oliver opens a bag of crisps with unnecessary violence. He’s still wearing those fingerless gloves, because apparently his hands are going to be tainted with the icy grip of death for the rest of his life despite that not making any sense. “It doesn’t matter.”

Jon looks up from his book with that intense expression he gets when an unhappy memory briefly returns to him. “Tell Jordan I’m sorry.”

“What?” But Georgie makes a shushing motion, which Oliver respects. He quite likes Georgie these days. Her ability to feel fear is back and she finds that overwhelming sometimes, so she has some idea of what things are like for him and has been supportive. It’s a far cry from her chasing him out of a hospital room a lifetime ago. 

*

Laverne, their onsite therapist, doesn’t remember the apocalypse per se. However, Melanie and Georgie rescued her from a fear domain for a period of time, and that left her with a subconscious feeling that the Entities were real. She can be trusted to believe what the ex-avatars say about their pasts.

“Why do you think the prospect of someone being interested in you frightens you so much?” she asks, turning to a fresh page on her legal pad to continue taking notes.

Oliver gnaws on a thumbnail. “I’m sick of having the power to hurt people.”

They spend the rest of the session unpacking that loaded statement, and then they’re out of time. “I hope I’ll see you in Group tomorrow,” she says. 

“It’s pretty much the social highlight of my week,” he sighs. 

*

The man who’d had the audacity to compliment Oliver is here today too, ambling around the corridor looking anxious. Group therapy started two minutes ago and Oliver doesn’t have time for this.

“Are you looking for something?” Oliver asks, because he’s a good person. Now.

“Room 83?” The man examines a printout in his hand and looks up at the doors again. “I don’t think there are enough rooms for there to be a Room 83.”

“It’s room 8E. That font is too small for its own good. I’m on my way there too, come on.” This means that the man is also an ex-avatar trying to reintegrate into society. Oliver wonders which Entity. 

“Thanks. I’m Jordan, by the way. We didn’t get a chance to chat much earlier.” Jordan has the appearance of being in his mid-thirties. He also has the fragility of someone who has lost weight they didn’t mean to lose and likely couldn’t spare, far too quickly. His eyes are wide and brown, almost doe-like, with dark shadows indicating sleep deprivation. Every few seconds it looks like he’s about to scratch himself, but stops. All that might make him sound like a wreck, but he also has a thoughtful, precise sort of face that makes a nice juxtaposition with his calloused hands. His goatee is neatly trimmed, his chestnut hair falls in long waves, and he’s wearing an old but well-kept long brown leather coat. It’s kind of like if someone shrank Hozier and ran him through a trauma filter. 

There would be time later to relay Jon’s message. “Oliver. This will be your first time, right?”

Jordan nods, almost-scratching again. “Nobody will say anything if I get sick on my shoes, will they?”

“As long as they’re your own shoes,” Oliver reassures him. 

When they arrive, the only folding chairs left in the circle are next to each other. Laverne gives them a nod of acknowledgement but doesn’t interrupt Evan as he shares his worries about wanting to have kids just as much as his wife does but being terrified of having no idea how to be a good father.

“I think just wanting to be a good father puts you ahead of the game,” Karolina says. Evan smiles his thanks.

“That’s a good point,” Laverne says, before gesturing in Jordan’s direction. “We have someone new today. Jordan, right? Could everyone introduce yourselves?”

They’ve done this welcoming routine a few times before, so everyone follows the pattern:

“I’m Oliver. I used to serve the End, and now I handle the James Foundation’s finances.”

“I’m Martin. I used to serve the Eye and, uh, then I was with the Lonely for a while because I thought I needed to do that to save the world. Now I’m the director of the James Foundation.”

“I’m Callum. Some cultists dripped Dark goo onto me, and I turned into a bully and then I ran a Dark fear domain for kids a bit, but I’m better now.”

“I’m David. A Spiral vase ate me and brainwashed me into becoming a twisted parody of a psychiatrist and spat me out a few years later to torture people. I decided not to try to be a regular psychiatrist again after that. I help my husband with his antiques business.”

“I’m Andre. I’m David’s husband and technically shouldn’t be here, but I couldn’t handle staying home alone this time.”

“I’m Harriet. I was adopted by Simon Fairchild when I was very young and groomed to serve the Vast. I’m training to be a dental hygienist. Nice and boring.”

“I’m Evan. When I got engaged to my wife and refused to bring her into the cult of the Lonely, my family kidnapped me, faked my death, and forced me to participate in their worship if I didn’t want them to kill her. We’re focusing on rebuilding our relationship and getting me comfortable with the real world again.”

“I’m Karolina. I almost got Buried alive. Then I started leaking dirt everywhere I went. Then I started Burying other people alive. I don’t want to talk about it.”

Everyone looked at Jordan. He took a deep breath. “I’m Jordan. I was being devoured by ants for all eternity, then the Archivist turned me into one of you out of pity. Then I was the one watching ants torture other people. I hated that he made me into what I thought of as a monster. Then the world changed back, and I hated him because if he’d just let me suffer, I wouldn’t remember anything that happened. It wouldn’t matter. But because he tried to help me, I remember both sides of the deal. It seems so fucking unfair - oh, er, so frigging unfair -”

“I’m almost fourteen, and I’ve heard much worse,” Callum says. 

Jordan huffs a pained laugh. “Right. I marched into Martin’s office ready to find out where Jon was and give him a piece of my mind. Then I found out what happened to Jon. It wasn't that he apologized, though he did. It's what he’s like now, and why. I can’t...I can’t hate him anymore. Now I don’t know what to do. Martin suggested that I come here. Oh, and I lost my job with the CDC because I no longer have the mental stability to follow their schedule and rules, so I applied for a loan from the James Foundation to restart Kennedy Pest Control. That way I can set my own hours for killing ants. And keep growing out my hair without being considered ‘unprofessional’. At first it was a depression thing, but it’s, well, growing on me. I can always tie it back...”

As Jordan speaks, he sags more and more until he’s unconsciously leaning against Oliver. It’s understandable that he would feel odd about leaning on Martin, who is on his other side. Oliver allows it.

After the meeting is over, there’s tea and biscuits and scattered milling around for unstructured chat. Oliver notices that Jordan has given into the random scratching and keeps looking at the floor.

“Everyone’s dropping crumbs,” Jordan muttered. “That’s how you get…”

“Ants, I know. You look like you could use a drink. There’s a pub near here that’s quiet and clean. Interested?”

“Are you asking me for drinks, or are you asking me _out_ for _a drink_?” Jordan asks, raising one eyebrow.

“Which one do you want it to be?” Now that Jordan knows what Oliver was, Oliver finds that his fear is gone. Most of it, anyway. Enough so that he’s willing to try.

“Hmmm. I suppose we do have a lot of death in common between us.” 

Oliver snorts. “It’s as good a starting point as any.”

*

“How does that even work, though?” Jordan chuckles into his pint. “Did you just go around and...observe people dying? Slurp up their inner _ooooooh nooooooo_ like a psychic straw?”

When he says it like that, it does sound ridiculous. “From my perspective at the time, everyone was dying. From the moment they were born. I couldn’t see exactly how until it was less than two weeks away, but everyone was dying. It’s hard to get back into normal life when you spent years thinking that way.”

“Mm. The Exterminator and the Coroner. Would make for a good song title.”

Oliver leans forward on his elbows. “You write songs?”

“I’m allowed to have pleasures in life other than gassing bugs to death,” Jordan replies dryly. “Yeah. I used to want to be a musician full-time, but that didn’t pay the bills, so I helped my dad with his business. Then he died, and business was busy, so…”

“Do you perform?”

“There’s this place that does open mic nights. I get up there sometimes, if I’m in the right frame of mind. Just me and my guitar. I do sort of off-kilter folk ballads. It’s not everyone’s thing,”

“Don’t presume what is or is not my thing.” Oliver signals for another round. “What’s the oddest job you ever took that had nothing supernatural about it?”

“Fox in the bedroom.” Jordan seems unaware of what he’s just said.

“Well, I don’t doubt that you are, but let me find out for myself.” Maybe it’s the drinks, maybe it’s the relief of someone he can actually talk to about every aspect of his past, but Jordan laughs at Oliver's cheap joke until he's wheezing. 

Oliver wheedles the location and time of the next open mic out of Jordan before they part ways. The only goodbye touch between them is Jordan taking Oliver’s hands and squeezing them lightly. But Oliver’s hands feel warm the rest of the night.

*

Jordan descends from the stage, flushed with adrenaline and applause, and nearly bonks his guitar into Oliver. “I didn’t see you there. Would it kill you to wear something besides black and gray?”

“I don’t know, it might,” Oliver says, leading Jordan to the corner he’s commandeered. “[That was a fascinating concept for a song. The story of Oedipus, but make it science fiction.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LpG9oNK3q2U)”

“I loved Greek mythology as a kid,” Jordan explains. He puts his guitar down and accepts the glass of water. After a few gulps, he continues, “I might not have showed up today if I hadn’t known you were going to be in the audience. I had a, well, I had a flashback while I was trying to get at some rats and I nearly had to leave the job unfinished.”

“What was it about the rats?” Oliver asks softly.

“Not the rats, the tunnels,” Jordan says.

“Oh.”

Jordan hooks his foot around Oliver’s ankle under the table, as if anchoring himself. Oliver acts like he doesn’t notice and asks Jordan what other things he likes to sing about. _Oh, you know, love. War. Fairy tales. Trains. Outer space. The usual._

An hour later, Jordan looks at his watch and says he needs to get home, that he’s going to have a long day purchasing supplies for his business tomorrow. Oliver surprises both of them by still knowing a lot about pesticides, as they’re just another kind of poison. 

“I’m telling you, borax is only boric acid with shiny packaging and good PR,” Jordan concludes vehemently. “Oh, did you come here on the Tube? I could give you a ride home instead.”

“In your van of Pestilence?” Oliver teases.

“No, in my car of Famine, obviously.”

It’s a short drive. When they arrive Oliver hesitates, wondering what the etiquette is here. “We should...we should do something else. If that would be okay.”

“Yeah. Text me some restaurants you like, and I’ll research their hygiene ratings. Oh, by the way....”

“What?”

“Out of the gods, I always liked Hades.” He leans over and kisses Oliver, then whispers _goodnight_ in his ear.

*

“This place is certified hygienic, then?” Oliver asks as they peruse the menus.

“A recent client, actually, so the roaches are unlikely to have come back yet,” Jordan says, examining the cutlery. There’s a slightly manic energy to him. “I haven’t slept in two days, you?”

“Laverne referred me to someone who could prescribe me Klonopin,” Oliver says. It’s not a perfect solution, but it helps. 

“Maybe I should look into that.”

Oliver tilts his head. “You can text me and see if I’m awake too. We could talk. Then we would be sleepless in good company."

*

Because he is trying to Go on Dates Like Normal People, Oliver goes to the cinema for the first time in ages. It’s a lot.

“I’m sorry I cried so much,” Oliver says as they emerge into the lobby. 

“I thought it was very sweet how concerned you were,” Jordan says, tentatively putting an arm around his waist. 

He drives Oliver home. They kiss in the car for at least half an hour before Oliver places his hands on Jordan’s shoulders. “Would you like to come in?”

Jordan smiles. “Yeah, alright.”

*

When Oliver wakes, it’s still dark. Jordan is standing by the window naked, looking up.

Oliver puts on a dressing gown and approaches Jordan with a fuzzy throw. “Are you okay?”

“Sometimes I’m afraid that it’ll blink at me,” Jordan mumbles, passively letting Oliver wrap the blanket around him. “It’ll blink, and I’ll be covered in ants again, and it’ll turn out that the life we have now is a dream and the nightmares are the real thing.”

“Me too,” Oliver whispers.

“How do you handle it?”

“I spent so long thinking about death, and how it’s around all of us all the time. How it can take everyone we love in a split second. But if that’s the case, that also means there’s nothing special about it. Sure, we take reasonable precautions, but if there is no vigilance that will save us, there’s no point in devoting ourselves to vigilance.” He presses a kiss to Jordan’s neck. “I want to spend time in bed with you, not trying to stop the moon from being an Eye.”

“...That does sound appealing.”

“C’mon. Stay with me.”

Tangled in loving arms, Oliver drifts off to sleep again. The Coroner says to him: _The moment you die will feel exactly the same as this one._

With new confidence, Oliver tells his dream: _I’ll take that deal._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _...It well may be that in a difficult hour,  
>  Pinned down by pain and moaning for release,  
> Or nagged by want past resolution's power,  
> I might be driven to sell your love for peace,  
> Or trade the memory of this night for food.  
> It well may be. I do not think I would. _
> 
> \- Also from "Love is Not All" by Edna St. Vincent Millay
> 
> As I press submit, it is the night before Episode 200. I absolutely had to finish this fic by then, and very pleased that I did.


End file.
